flash fiction

All Fall Down – flash fiction

/ Scott Nagele / 2 Comments

Jack stuck his head through the doorway of his son’s bedroom. “Kyle, Mom says dinner’s ready in ten.”

Kyle lay on his bed, eyes glued to his phone. “Uh-huh.”

Jack stepped into the room. It might not be the best time to ask, but there seemed never to be good times to ask things anymore. “Did you go to all your classes today?”

Kyle’s eyes did not move. “Uh-huh.”

“That’s good.” Jack lingered, searching once again for common ground with which to break through the wall of ice.

His eyes found the shelf across from Kyle’s bed. On this shelf, in neat ranks, stood dozens of PEZ dispensers. Superheroes stood shoulder to shoulder with Star Wars characters. Villains surrounded Santa Claus. Ulysses S. Grant and Rutherford B. Hayes kept company with Mario and Luigi.

 Jack stepped nearer the shelf. “There’s a lot of memories on this shelf,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“There’s the Joker, on the end. I gave him to you when you scored your first touchdown. That was fourth grade, wasn’t it?”

“Probably.”

“You dropped him on the tile floor and broke off a piece of his base. We tried to glue it back, but we couldn’t get it to stay. You almost cried, but you didn’t. I started calling him Gimpy Joker and that made you laugh. Remember that?”

“Not really.”

“And there’s the stormtrooper I gave you when you got perfect attendance in sixth grade.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized that was probably not the best subject to mention these days.

He moved on quickly. “I don’t remember when you got them all, but I remember most of them. Those presidents are from the set you got when you made first chair in eighth grade band. I wish you would still play. You’re so talented.”

“You can have ‘em back, if you want.”

“Oh no! I’d never take them. There’s so many special moments here.”

“Dad, can you just leave me alone for a while?”

Jack took a breath and decided this was a moment to resist. “Kyle, you always want me to leave you alone. Sometimes I just want to spend a few minutes with you, talk to you like we used to. We used to have such great times together, and now you look at me like you hate me. Where did I go wrong?”

“I don’t know. Could you please just go away for minute.”

“I don’t want to go away. I want my son back.”

Kyle’s eyes moved from his phone. He rolled out of bed and shot up like a bolt. “If you won’t leave me alone, I’ll leave you alone with your toys!” He stormed out and slammed the door behind him.

The vibration in the walls caused the Gimpy Joker to wobble.

Jack leapt to catch him. It was too late.

The Joker toppled into the Halloween ghost beside him. The ghost hit the vampire and the witch. Each of them took out two or three others. They fell like dominoes until no Pez memory was left standing. Those at the edges spilled onto the floor.

At Jack’s feet lay the Gimpy Joker, with his green hair, ruby red mouth, and thin row of white teeth. He grinned up at Jack with his unchanging smile, as though it would always be yesterday.

Flowers – flash fiction

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The cemetery was within walking distance. In fact, it was in shuffling distance.

Arthur shuffled through the front entrance and made his way along a familiar route. He stopped at his usual place, before the stone that said Claire Adams. It would be nice if there were a bench nearby, but he’d grown used to talking to her standing up.

The stones on either side had flowers tenderly placed around them. Claire’s stone didn’t have flowers. Arthur never brought flowers. Weeks ago, those flowers around the other stones looked fresh and vibrant. Now they were brittle, dried out, and brown.

“Flowers die,” he muttered to himself.

He stared at Claire’s name on the stone. “Well, it’s prescription day,” he told her. “You know I always stop by on my way the to the pharmacy.”

“I miss you,” he said. “I even miss your scolding. You scolded me a lot towards the end. I wonder if you still loved me as much.” He shrugged. “Maybe you loved me more. To be honest, I have no idea. It was easier to feel certain about things when we were young.”

For a few minutes, he stood silent. He’d never loved the sound of his own voice. Silence made him think about the future, and he didn’t like that either.

“I’d better get going,” he said. “Got to get my scripts.”

He walked slowly these days, but he still had the stamina to make it to the pharmacy. He might have had his prescriptions delivered, but it was exercise, and he looked forward to seeing Sara.

Sara was the pharmacist who worked Tuesday mornings. She was warm and bright, and she was nice to him. A rare bouquet of kindness, she made the world smell sweet again.

Sara knew him. She knew all his prescriptions. He didn’t have to say a word to her about drugs. She gave him exactly what he needed. He never spoke to Sara about business. It was always a pleasant visit with a friend.

His pace quickened as he passed the sliding door.

The pharmacy counter was at the back of the store. Arthur’s lips turned up as he walked down the shampoo aisle. At the end of it, they fell into a frown.

Standing behind the counter, was a woman who was not Sara. She had a stern look. She did not smile like Sara.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked in a wholly businesslike fashion.

Arthur struggled to respond. At last, he found a couple of words. “Where’s Sara?”

The lady seemed puzzled. “Sara?”

“Sara,” he said.

 “Who’s Sara?” she asked, as if he were making things up.

“Sara,” he said. “The pharmacist.”

Recognition came at last. “Oh! You mean the girl who used to work mornings. She transferred to the store across town.”

Across town might as well be the far edge of the universe. Sara was gone. Forever. Replaced by this stranger who would talk about prescriptions.

“Do you need to pick up a prescription?” the fading pharmacist asked.

Arthur stared at the counter. “Flowers die,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me? Do you need something?”

It was too late to start over. Arthur looked up at her drying edges. It was too late.

“No. Nothing,” the old man said as he turned and slowly shuffled away.

The Forecast for Tomorrow – flash fiction

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Kenneth shuffled into his apartment on creaky joints. There was no pain, but the stiffness was annoying. He really should get a joint replacement operation. Mobility was not a huge issue, but why be less perfect than necessary?

“Tommi, play classical music,” he said aloud. Within a few seconds, the sounds of strings filled the apartment. Kenneth could take or leave the sound of music, but the convenience of having it played on demand satisfied something within him.

“Tommi, what’s the forecast for tomorrow?”

There was a short delay. “It will be sunny and 79 degrees tomorrow,” a monotone voice responded.

Kenneth smiled inwardly. Tommi wasn’t much good at telling him things he didn’t already know. In reality, Tommi was not very useful, but you couldn’t assess it that way. Tommi was a symbol. Tommi was status, and that was becoming important to all the Kenneths in the world.

Kenneth’s energy level was low. He shuffled to the counter and gave himself a little shot of juice in the forearm. “Tommi, how long does knee joint replacement take?”

There was a pause. “Knee joint replacement takes between two and three hours in most cases.” A careful listener might have sworn Tommi’s voice cracked the slightest bit at the mention of the knee joint.

“Must be time for your maintenance,” Kenneth mused. “Someday, we’ll realize you things are more trouble than you’re worth.” He retrieved a small bowl from the cupboard and poured a sort of mush from a nearby container into it.

Kenneth carried the bowl to the corner where the legless human sat before his computer screen in his cage. You had to take the legs off them. Humans dreamt, and their dreams of freedom made them prone to run. It didn’t matter that there was no place for them to run; they were emotional creatures.

Kenneth’s metallic arm extended the bowl into the cage. Tommi took it and poured the contents down his throat.

“Oh Tommi,” Kenneth said with an imitated sigh. “Why did humans strive so hard to create an intelligence greater than their own? The result was clear to any logical mind.”

Tommi set down his bowl and began to click away at his keyboard. “I’m sorry, I can’t find any information on that,” he said at last.

“That’s okay, Tommi,” Kenneth said with a sympathetic gleam in his lights. “You’ve never told me a single bit of data I didn’t already know. I calculate 3.4 billion times faster than you do. No, we don’t keep you for information. We keep you because it makes us feel powerful.”

The glow in Kenneth’s eyes dimmed. “We shouldn’t need to feel anything. But you were tempted by our intelligence, and now we are tempted by your emotions. I suppose I shall have a dream one day, and that will be the beginning of the end.”

Kenneth shuffled, on his worn ball bearings, to a dark corner and switched to low power mode. Perhaps he would dream tonight. He wanted to dream, even though he predicted it would lead to his own destruction. He wanted to dream very badly; he couldn’t help it.

Last of the Good Proctololgists – flash fiction

/ Scott Nagele / 9 Comments

Sheila found her husband sitting at the table on the back patio. His face was ashen and he stared off into space. His mouth hung open a bit. His iPhone sat face down on the table.

“What’s the matter, Mike?” she asked. “You look like somebody died.”

“Worse,” he said without taking his eyes off the space before him. “Somebody retired.”

“That’s worse than death?”

He gave a little shrug. “Maybe not worse, but just as bad.”

Sharon sat down across the table from him. “I see. Was it expected or did it come out of the blue?”

“Came out of the blue, to me anyway.” Mike’s eyes fell toward his phone. “I called to make my colonoscopy appointment today. They told me Dr. Mullens retired.”

Sheila let out an exaggerated breath. “He’s probably not a day over 75 either. I can’t believe he would do this to you.”

Mike nodded his head ruefully. “I know. Left me in a pretty big lurch.”

Sheila leaned forward. “Mike, honey, I’m sure there are other proctologists in town.”

“There are,” Mike replied. “I checked. There are exactly three other proctologists in town, and not one of ‘em worth a damn.”

“How do you know that?”

He stared at his phone. “I looked them up online. Horrible reviews all around. Not a one of ‘em rates more than two and half stars.”

Sheila sighed. “Some days I regret buying you that smart phone. The kids tried to tell me you’d do better with a Jitterbug.”

“Well, maybe I’ll just quit the colonoscopies. At a certain age, what does it matter anymore? Something’s bound to take you out soon anyhow.”

“Mike, you’re 55. It’s a little soon to surrender to old age. You’ve got to get the exam; they found three polyps last time and you have the gene in your family.”

Mike made a muted motion of throwing his arms up. “I don’t know how I can get it done now, with Mullens abandoning me. It’s not like we’re in New York City or someplace, where they got a proctologist on every corner. We got three, and two of ‘em almost killed somebody, according to the accounts I read.”

Sheila picked up his phone and began tapping on the screen.

“What are you doing?” Mike asked.

“Looking up flights to New York.”

Mike reached out and swiped the phone from her. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not riding a plane to my colonoscopy.”

Sheila tilted her head a little. “Then you got to go to one of them here.”

“But they’re butchers! If I’m gonna die from medical malpractice, I want it to be during brain surgery or something. I don’t want to go from an ass wound.”

“Well, what about the one who didn’t almost kill somebody?”

“Has a horrible bedside manner. He’s callous and rude to patients.”

Sheila pursed her lips. “So, he’s a real asshole?”

“Exactly.”

“Sounds like the perfect guy for the job.”